


The End of Lonely Street

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 09:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6977476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London, 1956. Hux wants to forget a failed engagement, Ren wants to forget a failed career, and they both really need to get laid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End of Lonely Street

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hollycomb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollycomb/gifts).



> The always amazing hollycomb posted [this](http://hollyhark.tumblr.com/post/144923231790) great gifset and accompanying tags, and I had to write it up. Had to.

“I'm sorry,” the waiter says, and his American accent grates on Hux like a chair scraping across the floor. _Saree._ “We're out of the special.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Hux looks up at the man. It's a long way. He's tall and broad-shouldered, towering over Hux's table. A monolith in a tatty white apron. 

“We're out of the special,” the waiter repeats. A hardness forms in his eyes, as if he's challenging Hux to argue with him. 

_Well_ , Hux thinks, _I've been spoiling for a fight with someone. I suppose you'll do._ “How is that possible?”

“It's all gone.”

“It's sausage and chips, not some type of rare bloody caviar. Why isn't there more?”

The man looks offended, as if this has become a personal attack. “There just isn't. We've sold it all.”

“May I ask to whom?” Hux looks pointedly around the restaurant. It's half a step up from a Lyon's tea room. Most of the dozen Formica-topped tables are unoccupied. His fellow diners are limited to one elderly couple and a lone teddy boy, none of whom are eating sausage and chips. 

“People. Earlier.” 

Hux takes a drag on his cigarette. “What time do you open?”

“What?” 

“I'm merely trying to ascertain when these 'people' arrived. Were they lined up at the door? Is your sausage and chips so renowned that I ought to have made reservations months in advance?”

“Look,” the man says, and suddenly he sounds tired and depressed. Hux frowns. He's cornered the market on tired and depressed himself. He doesn't want anyone pushing in. “Just order something else or leave, all right? I'll give you a discount.” 

Hux inhales then exhales again, a plume of smoke rising between him and the waiter. “Twenty percent.”

The man snorts. “Five.”

“Ten.”

“All right.” 

Hux hands him the stained menu. “I'll have the egg and chips.” 

The waiter sighs. “Yeah,” he says, and Hux can predict the next words before they're out of his mouth. “It's the chips we're out of.” 

Hux lingers over his chip-less eggs and sausage. He has nowhere to go. He knows no one in London. The only reason he came here was because it is far from home, far from Phasma, and far from the preparations for Phasma's wedding. 

They never loved each other. Not like that, the way they were meant to. The way everybody thought they did. But they were close, closer than Hux has been to anyone, and if they weren't longing to undress one another, that was their little secret. They were going to grow old together in a sexless, happy marriage. That was the plan. Phasma—which is not even her real name, Hux reminds himself— _Philomena_ could safely look at pretty women, Hux could safely look at handsome men, and everything would be perfect. 

Until Phasma went to America and came home engaged, for real it seems, to one Dopheld Mitaka. 

Hux doesn't know what ethnicity the man is. He doesn't care. All he cares about is that Phasma, his best friend, the only person who knows his darkest secrets, betrayed him. Everyone thinks he's heartbroken because his girl took up with another man. He's not. He's heartbroken because his best friend broke their agreement. That's much worse.

Wallowing in a sea of self-pity isn't helping. Hux knows that, but that doesn't make it any easier to swim to shore. He finishes his meal, then has a Bakewell tart that looks like a breast, with its blobby red nipple, and tastes like ash. He has a cigarette and a cup of tea, then another of each. The old couple leave, and the teddy boy is joined by three of his similarly thuggish friends. When Hux lights his second cigarette, one of them sidles over to his table and says, “Give us a fag, mate?” in broad Cockney.

“I'm dreadfully sorry, that was my last one,” Hux lies. He has no intention of providing cigarettes to a group of oafish layabouts. 

The man gives him a humourless grin, baring his teeth like an animal. “You a toff? Hair like that, I pegged you for a mick.” 

“That's funny.” Hux flicks his eyes down the man's ridiculous outfit. “Clothes like that, I pegged you for a moron. Looks like one of us was right.” 

The man looks stunned, for a moment, as if no one had ever insulted him before. _In that case_ , Hux thinks, _he's been remarkably fortunate._ The paralysis only lasts an instant. The man slams his hand down on Hux's table, rattling his teacup. “What did you say, you bastard?” Like storm clouds, the other teddy boys gather around him. Hux doesn't mind. He needs something to take his mind off his interior pain. A fight with four men might be just the ticket. He's even looking forward to it, setting his cigarette down on the ashtray and preparing to remove his jacket, when that damned hulking waiter appears. 

“Get lost,” the waiter says. 

“This is nothing to do with you, mate,” one of the hangers-on cautions. 

“I said scram. You're not fighting in here.”

“Oh, go home, you bloody Yank.” The man barely has time to get the words out before the waiter has him by the throat. As Hux and the other teddy boys watch in awe, the waiter lifts him by his neck until his feet clear the ground. The man sputters and chokes, his legs working helplessly, kicking at nothing. 

“Get lost,” the waiter repeats. He shakes the man a bit, like a dog worrying a rat, and drops him. He lands on the floor with a crash. The teddy boys fall over themselves running out of the place. 

“I could have handled them myself,” Hux says. 

“You're welcome,” the waiter replies. He pulls off his apron and drops it on Hux's table. “I'll see you around.” The man heads for the door. 

“What...” Hux frowns. “What are you doing? Are you finished work?”

“I guess so. I just quit.” 

“What?” Hux pulls a handful of coins out of his wallet and leaves them on the table. “You can't do that.” _It's impossible_ , Hux thinks. _Nobody does that. Do they?_ Intrigued, he follows the waiter out. 

Outside, it's a pleasant summer evening. Couples walk by, hand-in-hand, as Hux rushes to catch up with the waiter. Former waiter, Hux supposes. “Why did you do it?” 

“I got tired of the job. What do you care?”

“I don't.” But it's better than thinking about Phasma and Dopheld Mitaka. “Why are you here? I mean, why are you in England?” 

The man stops. “Just leave me alone, okay?” His eyes are weary. Hux knows that expression. He's _felt_ that expression. 

“Did your girl leave you?” Hux asks.

The ex-waiter blinks, as if he hadn't expected Hux to be so astute. “Something like that.” He sighs. Two blonde women pass, giggling together. They're pretty, Hux can tell, but the man doesn't turn to look. “My grandfather was a famous West End actor. Darth Vader?” Hux can't say he's heard of him. “I came here to continue his legacy.” 

“And have you?”

“No.” 

“So what are you going to do now?”

The man shrugs. “Go home, I guess.” 

“What about Hollywood?” 

“What about it?” 

“You're handsome.” Hux bites his tongue. At home, saying that, even innocently, can get a man a punch in the face. As eager as he is for a distraction, Hux isn't convinced he'd survive a punch from this man. But he doesn't seem to take offense, so Hux continues. “You could be a film star.” 

“I'm not good looking enough to make movies.” 

“You're better looking than Cary bloody Grant, I'll tell you that for nothing.” 

The man smiles, which turns into a laugh. Hux smiles as well. It's been a long time since he's made anyone something other than miserable. “Kylo Ren,” the man says. Hux blinks. “That's my name,” he explains. “Well, my stage name.” He holds out a hand. 

“Hux,” Hux says. He shakes Ren's hand.

“That's your last name?”

“Just call me Hux.” 

“You are Irish, though, right?” Hux nods. Maybe he's not the only one with insight. “So what's with the fake accent?”

“It can cause a lot of trouble to sound like an Irishman here.” He knows from experience. “I prefer to blend in.” 

“By sounding posh? In Stepney?” 

“I can't do Cockney.” 

Kylo Ren laughs again, although Hux was being serious. “Well, Hux, it was nice to meet you, but I should probably get going.” Hux doesn't want that. If Ren leaves, then Hux will be alone again, and if he's alone he'll start cataloguing all the ways in which Phasma has betrayed him. Again. 

“I was engaged,” Hux blurts out. “To my childhood sweetheart. She left me for another man.” 

Ren looks at him, so intently that Hux feels a blush begin to rise up his neck. It's silly. Plenty of men are left by women; it happens all the time. It's the most normal thing that's ever happened to Hux, really, now that he thinks of it. There's no reason for Ren to be staring. “Same here,” Ren says, finally. “Except the genders were reversed.” 

Hux tries to wrap his mind around that. “You mean...”

“My man left me for a woman. Well, a woman and another man. He always had to be avant-garde.” 

Hux licks his lips. This isn't possible. He's never met a man like him, with the same...peculiarities. Hux wasn't altogether convinced they existed, although he didn't think they would bother to make a law against something that was unique to Hux himself. He's not that self-centred. “That's...that's illegal,” Hux squeaks, when he manages to speak. It's the stupidest thing he could have said. 

Ren scowls. “I know. Are you going to turn me in?” 

“No. That's...I mean, that's not what I meant.” Hux needs a cigarette. He reaches into his pocket. He offers the pack to Ren, who shakes his head. It's just as well. Hux's hands are shaking so badly, it takes him three tries to even get his own cigarette lit.

 _What if it's a trap?_ Hux has heard of things like that. Policemen pretending to be interested, only to snap on the handcuffs the moment a man's trousers are down. _But I pursued him_ , Hux counters. _Surely they wouldn't go to that extent?_

“Are you all right?” Ren's scowl has eased a bit, and there's concern in his big brown eyes. 

“I'm that way, too.” He's never spoken the words aloud. Phasma somehow knew without Hux needing to spell it out, and in the confessional he's always been vague about the precise details of his “impure thoughts.” He's certain at least one priest came away with the idea Hux longed to fornicate with the local livestock, but that's better than having them know the truth. 

Ren sighs. “I'm sorry.” There's that word again. _Saree._ It's just as irritating as before.

“I'm not.” It makes life complicated. It would have been much simpler to be born a lover of women, but looking at Ren, Hux doesn't feel _saree_ at all. He glances around, but there's nobody within earshot. To be safe, he lowers his voice anyway. “Can we have sex?” 

Ren opens his mouth, then shuts it again. His eyes flick heavenward, as if looking for an answer, then lower to look at Hux directly. “Are you serious?” 

“I would really like to.” Hux doesn't care how he sounds. He's not going to see this man again in any case. But to finally do what he's dreamed of since he was old enough to dream anything of that sort, to make real the thoughts he's had for years, that's a chance Hux can't pass up. It may not come again.

“I don't think I can help you with that.” Ren turns, as if to walk away. Hux reaches out and catches his sleeve. 

“Is it because I haven't done it before? Because I'm sure I can learn. I'm a very quick study.” 

Ren looks even more uncomfortable than before. The tips of his ears are red, Hux notices, and Hux is glad to know he's not the only one with a blushing problem. “Are you a cop?” Ren asks.

“No! Of course not.” Hux is affronted, despite having had the same thought not a minute earlier. “Why would you say that?” 

“Am I on TV, then? Is this some late-night version of 'Candid Camera'?” 

“What?” This isn't making sense, and it's wasting time. 

“Gorgeous virgins don't generally throw themselves at me, Hux.” 

“Oh.” Hux goes from annoyed to embarrassed so quickly, his head spins. “Well, I'm not throwing myself. I'm asking.” 

Ren bites his lip. If he wasn't interested before, that would have sold Hux on the spot. “How far's your hotel?” 

“Five minutes.” 

It takes three before Hux realizes Ren called him gorgeous.

The hotel is really a small room above a pub. It's all Hux can afford, given that he's not sure how long he's going to be licking his wounds in London. 

“Wait for a minute.” Even in his excitement, Hux knows they can't waltz up the stairs together. “Then sneak up the back way. Knock three times on the door.” Ren nods. 

Inside the room, nerves take over. Should Hux be taking off his clothes already? He told Ren he'd learn quickly, but what if he didn't? What if...

There are three knocks on the door. “You didn't wait very long,” Hux complains, letting Ren in.

“How could I?” There's a new look in Ren's eyes. It's almost predatory, and, while Hux's stomach flips with anxiety, he can't say he dislikes it. 

“Well, come on, then.” He holds out his arms. 

It's not exactly as Hux had anticipated. Hux expected Ren to take him in his strong, muscular arms and ravish him. Instead, Ren kisses like he's visiting his grandmother, a chaste peck on Hux's cheek and then one on his closed lips. “That's no good.” 

“I don't want to go too fast for you.”

“At that rate, we'll be ancient before we get anywhere.” 

Ren tries again. It's better, this time. His arms go around Hux's waist, pulling him close, and his tongue slides against Hux's lips. Hux opens them, slightly, and Ren's tongue slips inside. 

The sensation is unusual, but not unpleasant. Not at all. Hux can feel himself hardening in his trousers as Ren kisses him, his large hands squeezing Hux's waist and then moving to rest on his backside. For his part, Hux allows his hands to move up, into Ren's thick, soft hair. It's wonderful, it's amazing, then, all of a sudden, it's not enough. Hux needs more, now. He yanks Ren forward, pulling him down onto the narrow bed. 

The mattress groans beneath their combined weight. The sound jolts Hux back to reality and reminds him that, while he's spent years imagining just such a situation, he doesn't actually know what to do now he's in it. “Ren,” he says. Then, “Kylo.” He doesn't want to beg. Fortunately, Ren takes the hint. He leans back a little, and pushes Hux's jacket off his shoulders. It hits the floor. Any anxiety Hux might feel about it wrinkling is washed away when Ren unbuttons his own shirt and reveals a body unlike any Hux has seen outside of classical Greek sculpture. 

“Oh, Jaysus,” he mutters, then belatedly realizes that sounds a little more Irish than he wants to. Ren doesn't notice, or if he does, he doesn't care. The benefit of being with an American, Hux supposes. Then Ren unbuckles his trousers, and Hux lets loose a litany of extremely Irish expressions that would knock out any of his priests or family members who had somehow made it this far. 

“I'll never get that up my arse.” Hux doesn't think it's merely his lack of experience talking. Surely, Ren is not...normal? 

“You aren't going to,” Ren replies. He looks pointedly at Hux. Hux pulls off his tie and unbuttons his shirt blindly, unable to shift his eyes from the sight before him. “We won't do that.” 

“But I thought...”

“There are other ways to have fun, believe me.” 

“I know.” And Hux knows it's ridiculous to feel a twinge of disappointment. “But we could give it a go.” 

“No.” 

“You really think I can't do it?” Now, it seems like a challenge. 

Ren has the nerve to grin. “I think you're an ambitious virgin, but I'm not putting you through that on your first try.” 

“You aren't that stunning.” 

“But you just said...”

“I know what I said.” Hux also knows what he wants. “Do it.” 

“It'll hurt. A lot.” 

“I can take it.” 

“Sex isn't about what you can take, Hux. It's about enjoying yourself.” _And I_ , Hux thinks, _will enjoy the look on your face when you see you were wrong about me._

Hux can tell he's wavering. Sure enough, Ren sighs, as if he's much put upon, and says, “One word from you and I'm stopping. And I'm going to make sure you're very well-prepared first.”

He makes it sound like a threat, but it feels like just the opposite. The first time Ren's carefully oiled finger dips down into the cleft of Hux's arse, Hux tenses up, but only for a moment. Ren runs his other hand along the length of Hux's cock. It's odd to have another person there, where no one but Hux has touched before, but again, the strangeness doesn't last long. Within moments, Hux is gasping despite himself, wondering how he's survived all these years without Ren's strong grip around his cock and Ren's tongue on the edge of his ear, on his neck, on his chest, circling his nipples and even swiping around his navel. 

Ren moves even further down. As he presses his tongue to the head of Hux's cock, he pushes his finger in from the other side. The first action seems to cancel out the second. Hux is too consumed by pleasure to feel much pain, and when Ren takes Hux's cock into his mouth, Hux has to put a hand over his own mouth to keep from moaning. 

“Next time,” Ren whispers, raising his head, “we'll do this in an empty house. You can scream the place down. I think you'd be a screamer, do you?”

Hux imagines them at his house in Killarney, in Hux's own bedroom, doing this as often, and as loudly, as they please. It's an impossible dream. The neighbours would gossip like mad if he brought a tall, dark American home. And his father would kill him. “Be quiet,” he tells Ren, and pushes his head down again. 

Hux doesn't last long. Another pass of Ren's tongue and he's coming into Ren's mouth. Belatedly, Hux wonders if it would have been polite to warn him, but Ren doesn't seem to mind. He swallows, then moves back up to kiss Hux again. There's a new, salty taste on his tongue, and when Hux realizes what it is, his face grows hot. 

“Come on, then,” he orders, authoritarian to cover up his sudden awkwardness. “I thought you were planning to...” He licks his lips. “Fuck me.” The profanity sounds unnatural, almost forced. It makes Ren smile, though. 

“You're really determined, you know that?” 

“Yes.” 

“What do you do for a living?” Ren shoves at Hux's shoulders, rolling him onto his stomach. Hux hesitates. That seems like a very personal question, even for a man who's currently massaging Hux's naked arse.

“I'm a teacher,” Hux admits. “At a boys' school near Killarney. My father's the headmaster.” 

“Neat-o,” Ren says, and if Hux never hears that word again, it'll be too soon. “What do you teach?”

“Can...can we not discuss that just now?” Or, preferably, ever. Talking about his job reminds Hux what a stupid idea this is. If he gets caught—if there was ever a suspicion—he would lose absolutely everything. Phasma leaving him would pale in comparison. 

“Sure,” Ren says, easily. “But it helps to talk, sometimes. Takes your mind off it.” Ren plants a row of kisses down Hux's spine. Hux's cock, spent and sandwiched between his body and the mattress, makes a valiant attempt at stirring for a second round. 

“Tell me...tell me about you, then.”

He feels, rather than sees, Ren shrug behind him. “Not much to tell. I'm a failed actor. A failed grandson. A failed boyfriend. This is the best thing that's happened to me in a long time.” 

“Me, too,” Hux admits, and groans into Ren's touch. 

When the moment comes, it's much worse than Hux expected. He's not about to let Ren know that. He grits his teeth and clenches his fists on the headboard, hard enough that he can feel the flimsy wood threatening to splinter beneath his grip. Ren stops moving. “Hux,” he says, his voice quiet. “We can quit. Any time.” Hux shakes his head. He doesn't trust himself to reply. 

It's horrible. It's painful and humiliating and Hux can't imagine why anyone would risk prison, let alone complete financial and social ruin, for it. Hux squeezes his eyes shut, concentrating on getting it over with. Then, quite unexpectedly, the pain subsides. Hux feels himself relax, a little, and Ren is there, kissing the back of his neck and praising him the way Hux would a recalcitrant pupil. More or less.

“Jesus Christ, Hux, you feel amazing. I swear to God, you're the best I've ever had.” It's unlikely, but Ren thrusts again and then, Hux feels it. Pleasure. It's different to anything he's felt before, and it's intriguing enough that Hux is disappointed when, just two thrusts later, Ren groans and comes and rolls off to lie beside him, his arms tight around Hux. 

They stay like that for a long moment before Ren speaks. “Are you okay?” 

Hux's arse is sore, and there's an uncomfortable, vaguely disturbing wetness running down the inside of his thighs. “Yes,” he says. He means it. “We should do it again.” He wants more time to examine that fascinating pleasure. 

Ren laughs, a low rumble that Hux can feel in his chest where it's pressed up against Ren. “You'll have to give me a couple of minutes.” 

Hux wants a drink of water, but he doesn't want to get out of bed. Fortunately, Ren seems to read his mind. He crosses the room, giving Hux a fabulous view, and fills a glass from the pitcher on the washbasin. He drinks deeply, then refills the glass and brings it back to Hux. “You really are gorgeous,” Ren says, handing over the glass. 

“You don't need to flatter me.” Hux tries not to smile. He fails. “You've already got your leg over.” 

“How long will you be in London?” 

“I don't know.” He has to go back to school at the end of the holidays, but that's still several weeks away. 

“Me, neither.” 

Hux reaches down for his trousers. He takes the cigarettes from the pocket and lights one, offering the packet and the matches to Ren. Ren takes them. “Ever thought about going to America?” Ren asks, lighting up.

The question is so out of the blue, Hux hesitates before he can answer. “Not really,” he says, finally. Normally, he would have said no. Hux has a job and a home in Ireland. He's never considered leaving it. He's had no reason to. 

Until now. Maybe. “There's a first time for everything, I suppose,” Hux adds. 

“For sure.” _Fer sher._ Hux smirks into his cigarette, but Ren's accent isn't as grating as it was.

“What's your real name?” He asks, suddenly keenly aware that he doesn't know it. 

“Ben Solo. What about you?” 

Hux gives Ben the answer he gives his particularly audacious pupils when they ask. “You can call me General,” he says, and pulls Ben in for another kiss.


End file.
